Is There Anybody Out There?
by Kashito91
Summary: Entrenched and de-evolved; one mouse leaves a note... to explain the madness poisoning his mind


**You know the score: The mice aren't mine. I don't care if you hate this, or read only a little of it. Please, give me some sort of comment.**

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><p>He knew he was hurting. He knew it way down in his heart; but his brain didn't care. His mind didn't care that he was sitting in his own filth; his fur matted and dirty, but as he sat there, in a quiet alleyway in Chicago's seedy underbelly, he knew he'd made the right call. It had been too long, and his heart was too broken to salvage. He'd left everything behind. His clothes, his bike, his locator. All he had was a gun, some cash, some bullets and his torturous memories; which poisoned and tainted every experience he had had until then.<p>

There were nights where he'd stay in his hidey hole, too wasted on alcohol to care about anything; other times, he was so alert, he'd lost sleep over it, ready to kill the first thing that moved in his direction. He'd heard his bro's bikes patrolling every last corner of the city in a desperate search to find him, but it was no use. He'd made sure they'd never find him, because he never stayed in the same place for more then two days.

He was an animal in the truest sense. He killed to survive; drank where he could and knew no remorse for the citizens of the planet who were destroying it day by day. The only relief he had was his hand; no girl, human or mouse, would look at him. He'd never known what love really was; only deceit and courtship. He knew they wouldn't have ended up mates, and there was no use continuing a relationship that wasn't solid.

The alleyway around him was almost as black as the night itself; there was no light to pierce the shadows, no way to know the shaggy, unkempt mouse was there. He took a drag on the cigarette hanging from his muzzle. He was going to die anyway; so why worry? He let out a soft sigh, before throwing the cigarette into a puddle and moving on; the alleyway almost undisturbed except for the filth he'd left behind.

He'd been doing this for almost a year. All his knowledge of battle plans; critical thinking, hell even basic mathematics and writing had left his brain; to be replaced by methods of hunting, how to scavenge food from bins and which sources of water hadn't been poisoned or somehow altered. Then, one grey night in December; he slipped a filthy piece of paper under a door, then vanished.

When Charlene Davidson awoke the next morning; she saw nothing out of the ordinary. The Christmas tree was up, large and small presents scattered around underneath it; a few of her own were under there too. She trudged into the kitchen, her brain on auto pilot as she set the coffee machine going. But then, she noticed something. Something that was out of place. She stooped down and picked up a filthy, stained and water damaged piece of paper. The scrawling on it was hardly legible. Once she worked it out; she burst into tears; the note fluttering to the floor.

When Modo and Vinnie rolled in twenty minutes later; Charlie was still on the floor; her breakfast forgotten and cold; the note clutched tight in her hands. The poor girl eventually cried herself to sleep in Modo's arms as Vinnie began to read the hasty scribble on the note.

"_Dear Charley,_

_I know you must hate me for running out on you and the bros, but please let me explain why._

_When Carbine and I split; yeah, it hurt, but when that got lumped on top of everything else that has accumulated in my mind since I began fighting these rotten stink-fish; I snapped. I am no longer a civilized mouse; but an animalistic predator in the shape of the mouse you once knew. _

_I know you may think me stupid and cowardly for taking this way out; but think about this: Is it wrong to just want the fights; the suffering, the almost inescapable madness of War and all its children to stop chasing you? Would you come out of watching the Orphanage get turned to ashes, unscathed and unbroken and you could do nothing to stop it? Is it wrong to kill the last remaining relative you have in the dead of night, who is suffering more pain then he has ever known in his life? I ask these questions, not to frighten you, but to make you understand some of the mental baggage I've had to live with; and that was just the first days of the Plutarkian War. The rest I have sworn to myself not to burden you with._

_To my bros; who will no doubt read this note:_

_I wish for you to not be angry with me. We all went through the horrors together. Please, do not do what I have done. I know it is stupid and a massive step backwards; but it is the only way I will survive and possibly try to cope. If you see me around; do not approach me. Communication, if any is attempted, will be at most notes like these. Your efforts to ambush me will be in vain. Just accept that I have chosen this path, and react accordingly._

_To Stoker; the father I wish I'd had my whole life:_

_I have failed you. I'm terribly sorry, but whatever will be, will be._

_To Carbine:_

_You astoundingly vile fuck. I hope you burn in the bowels of Hell. Also, consider this my break up notice and my discharge from the Martian Army; effective the moment you finish this sentence. I am no longer the slave to Mars you wanted me to be and dating you was 3 years I have lost of my life; you self centred; uncaring bitch._

_Goodbye; May the Gods bless you all; and I will see you in the Great Gig in the Sky,_

_Throttle._


End file.
